


This Day

by suitesamba



Series: The "This" Series [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, recent past John/Mary, semi-clueless Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-28
Updated: 2014-05-28
Packaged: 2018-01-26 20:43:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1701887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suitesamba/pseuds/suitesamba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock distracts John on what would have been John and Mary’s wedding day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Day

**Author's Note:**

> Part 7 of the "This" Series. "This" is a series of ficlets that all flow from a stag night that was never interrupted by Mrs. Hudson and the client. Some angst, some fluff, lots of Sherlock learning relationship ropes, recent past John/Mary.

John and Mary’s scheduled wedding day arrives. It is just warm enough without being too warm, with a pleasant breeze and puffy white clouds in a blue blue sky. 

Neither John nor Sherlock has mentioned the non-event in a week. But Sherlock has spent significant time thinking about it, considering and rejecting gestures simple and grand. He believes the day will weigh heavily on John’s mind, and has decided to distract John with things he loves.

Medicine. Sports. A good chase.

Sherlock has very good intentions. That should count for something if everything goes pear-shaped.

At nine in the morning, he calls out to John from the shower.

John opens the bathroom door moments later and walks through a wall of steam.

“You’re in the shower,” he says. What he is really saying is “This is new – you never call me when you’re in the shower.”

“Of course I’m in the shower,” answers Sherlock. “I’ve found an unusual mole that I’d like you to check.”

“An unusual mole,” repeats John suspiciously. He folds his hands over his chest and frowns. “A mole.”

“An _unusual_ mole,” repeats Sherlock. “On my back, just below my shoulder blade.” 

“That isn’t a mole,” John counters. He’s pulled back the shower curtain and touches the raised flesh under Sherlock’s left shoulder blade. “It’s a scar. We’ve discussed this already. You told me you got it in a knife fight in Amsterdam.” He sounds like he didn't believe the story when Sherlock told him and finds it even more suspect now.

Sherlock shivers at his touch. “Did I?”

John notes the shiver with interest and runs his fingers down the center of Sherlock’s back. 

“If it were a mole, you’d never ask me to check it. You’d let it grow and fester until it was big enough to have its own postal code.”

His fingers have continued down Sherlock’s back. They stop just above the crease of his arse. John loves Sherlock’s arse.

Sherlock knows this.

He turns around. Water splashes over John and he sputters, but Sherlock’s fingers close around his wrist and he pulls him into the shower still wearing his dressing gown.

Their morning is spent in the shower then back in bed for a post-shower nap. Their afternoon is spent at a football match. 

Sherlock, with a too-detailed explanation of how this is necessary for a case he is researching, presents the tickets to a flabbergasted John. They are good seats – nearly the best – and John studies them front and back as if they are forgeries. Sherlock asks dozens of annoying questions during the match, pretending to take notes on his mobile, then midway through, no longer even feigning interest in the proceedings, engages in a drawn-out texting war with his brother. John is able to enjoy the second half of the game in relative peace while Sherlock hurls insults at Mycroft and Mycroft volleys them back, each one punctuated by the just audible text alert Sherlock has chosen for Mycroft’s missives. “Boring,” the phone comments in Sherlock’s dismissive voice.

“I do know what you’re trying to do,” John tells Sherlock as they eat dinner that evening at Angelo’s. He glances at the candle on the table and covers a smile with his napkin.

But Lestrade conveniently texts just at that moment ("Case!" barks Sherlock's phone), and Sherlock tugs John out of his chair. They’re at it ‘til the early hours of morning, until John jumps from a fire escape into an alley and lands on a nail, which lodges in his foot. It’s jarringly painful and he is not at all surprised that Sherlock doesn’t register that a trip to the A&E is necessary. John, oddly grateful that he picked up a nail instead of a needle, insists nonetheless, and the wound is thoroughly cleaned and packed, and he gets a tetanus booster, and a bit of lecture from the A&E doctor, and since they’re there anyway, and since he’s a bit out of sorts with Sherlock who has escaped without even a smudge on his cheek, John insists Sherlock get one as well.They have a regular row about it, but John wins out in the end.

The cab drops them in front of their door, and John limps out, and Sherlock is just getting over his sulk. John walks gingerly on the ball of his foot up the stairs to their flat. It is nearly four thirty in the morning and he wants nothing more than to drop into bed and sleep right through to dinner.

Sherlock, however, has planned one last gesture, utterly romantic and, from this side of midnight, completely ridiculous. 

He’d taught John to waltz in the weeks before stag night, so John could dance with his bride on his wedding day. He’d meant to compose a waltz for them, but had shelved that idea, and had written and recorded another melody instead. Mrs. Hudson had helped him out tonight– turned down the lights, started the music looping, soft and low, cleared enough space on the floor for a bit of a slow dance.

The music is playing now as he opens the door and waits for John to limp to his chair. It is playing as he sits in his own chair, takes John’s good foot on his lap, and removes the one shoe John is still wearing.

The music is not jubilant, not celebratory. It is a bit mournful, a bit melancholy, a bit thankful. It moves into stormy emotions, rows in the A&E and in kabob shops, chases through alleys, a rising crescendo of pounding water and pounding hearts. 

“This is nice,” John says, quietly, as Sherlock pulls off his sock. “You wrote this – didn’t you?”

Sherlock nods. He’s a bit embarrassed now, since John cannot dance with his injured foot. Sitting here, all they can do is listen.

The music is still playing as they collapse in bed, utterly and thoroughly exhausted. 

“You’ve made this our day, you realize,” John says. His hand is in Sherlock’s hair, combing through the messy curls.

“Have I?” answers Sherlock into the pillow of John’s shoulder. “I was only trying to distract you.”

John chuckles. “An _unusual_ mole,” he says. He affects a voice of mock seriousness. “John, quick! Come look at this _unusual_ mole.”

Sherlock smiles. “It worked. It got you in the shower with me.”

John brushes hair from Sherlock’s eyes. “I already know every inch of you, Sherlock,” he says. 

And it seems like there is nothing more to say, and they fall asleep to the sound of Sherlock’s violin recounting the story of their life.


End file.
